Friday evening, Linette and I went out and had drinks with a woman who is planning to publish a free weekly paper here in the Ann Arbor / Ypsilanti area. We discussed ideas for how we might be able to work together. We sat around and drank for about three hours and kicked around ideas for comics, cover illustrations, stories, etc. Im not sure what will come of it, but she seemed receptive to at least considering what we had in mind. (If I do end up doing a comic, Ill post it here on-line as well. Actually, I might bounce some ideas off of you folks over the next week or so and see what you think. For instance, would you read a cartoon about a loveable little worm that lived inside the heart muscle of John Ashcroft? How about a series that takes place in a terrorist training camp? It would be like Beatle Bailey, only with more references to the Koran. (Actually, thats a fucking good idea. Please dont steal that one.))

After we met with Laura, the woman who is starting the paper, we went to the 50th birthday party of another Laura, our friend Laura Abraham. (She was drunk and grabbed my ass, twice. Id like to say more, but my attorneys have instructed me to say only that I, am in the process of healing.)

This isnt related, but will someone please buy me Orson Welless Oscar? Please. I think that I deserve it.

Linette and I designed t-shirts Saturday morning. Were going to have them screen-printed tomorrow. Theyre part of our Ypsilanti Heritage Collection. (Rest assured, you will be able to find them for sale here on this site before too long.)

Then, last night, Linette and I went out and saw our friend Leightons band, Chapstik, play with the Demolition Doll Rods. While we were watching the show, Linette came up with an idea. She suggested that we travel around the US, staying with Crimewave readers. I find the idea to be completely terrifying, but I cant deny that it might make for a hell of an adventure. So, start cleaning out those guest rooms.

Then, today, I worked on the top-secret purse design project If Im any indication, Pat Robertsons worst fears have come true. First the Supreme Court strikes down the sodomy law in Texas, then Queer Eye for the Straight Guy airs, and now I start designing purses It took them less than a month to break me down.

I have a hell of a lot more that Id like to say, but itll have to wait.

Goodnight.

A prostitute and her pimp have been walking back and forth in front of our house for the past half hour. As is usually the case, hes following behind her by a block or so. If Id just seen them go by once or twice, I wouldnt have thought much of it. They look normal enough. She appears to be about twenty years old. Shes white. Shes got curly brown hair. Shes wearing a knit dress with horizontal dark brown and light brown stripes. The man, the guy following her, is older. Id put him at about twenty-five. Hes my height, but probably about thirty pounds heavier. Hes a black guy. Hes wearing a dark blue shirt and carrying a silver radio thats about the size of a quart of milk. I cant tell if theres music coming out of it. I havent gotten that close.

I saw them go by twice outside as we ate dinner. I saw her, followed by him, going one direction. Then I saw her, followed by him, going the other direction. Then, when I was done with dinner, I decided to go and take the dog for a walk. I saw them again, twice. Both times, she was a block ahead of him and he was across the street, following her. At one point, she came to an intersection and looked back at him. He pointed, subtly, telling her which way he wanted for her to go.

I was debating whether or not to call the cops. I was wondering what would be better for the woman. First, I doubted whether or not the cops could actually do anything to them, unless they saw money change hands. They might, I thought, give them a hard time and tell them to move on, but that was probably going to be about it. Maybe its the OCD, but I began to worry that if I did tell the cops and that if they did question them, that she might get blamed by her pimp and beaten up later. I was torn. On one hand I wanted to help her, but on the other I just wanted her to make her money so that the guy wouldnt hurt her. I ended up not telling the cops.

This, at least in my town, is the way it is with prostitution. It takes place at all hours. It doesnt have to be midnight, and the women dont wear hot-pants and high heels. As I type this, its 7:30 on a Sunday evening. The city is quite. Very few cars are going by. Its beautiful outside. A few families are out on bikes. The prostitute could have just as easily been anyone else.

When I told Linette about it, she asked why they werent somewhere that was busier, somewhere with more traffic. I thought about it for a minute and realized that this business doesnt work like most others. You dont want lots of people. More people doesnt necessarily mean more customers. You want a quiet place where men know that, if they come there, theyll find what theyre looking for. My guess is that there are lots of places better than our street. I dont see prostitutes here very often. When I do, I rarely see them experiencing much luck. Only once have I been there when one of these women got into a car. (In that instance, for some reason, her pimp decided not to let her go. He ran after the car and threw a rock at its trunk. The car skidded to a stop, the woman jumped out, and the car sped off without her. She and the pimp limped away together.)

I suppose its like fishing. Michigan Avenue, the road that runs through the middle of Ypsilanti, is like a giant lake. Running from Detroit to Chicago, it is littered with small towns like this one, depressed little towns full of liquor stores and places to rent dirty movies. My guess is that they travel from town to town just like a fisherman moves from spot to spot on a lake, looking for a place where the fish are biting.

OK, I dont usually post my picture here on the site, but since a lot of the newer readers have been asking what I look like lately, Ive decided to post one. Before I show it to you though, I want to explain that this photo was taken a long time ago, back before I toughened up, back when I was what you might call a mommas boy.

Id like to show you what I look like today, but Im afraid Id scare you off. You see, Ive been told Im a little bit intimidating now. I think thats funny, because underneath this gruff exterior, Im a real teddy bear. Anyway, heres what I looked like back in the day, back before I got hardened and street-wise.

OK, that wasnt really me. Im not a skinhead. My eyes do, on occasion, fill up with blood like that though, and I am kind of losing my hair… On second thought, this does kind of look like me.

This guy is apparently in prison for murder. He was featured on The Smoking Gun a while back. Someone just sent me the link today. Ive been staring at him ever since and thinking what I could do with his photo. Im thinking that it would be fun to go to an internet chat room and make friends, exchange letters with them for a few days, and then forward the photo. If I had the patience, Id do just that. I dont have the patience though. Thats why I need an intern.

Oh, while were on the subject of The Smoking Gun, did you see the Susan Smith personal ad that they ran a few days ago? She says that she likes rainbows and Mickey Mouse, and that shes looking for someone whos not judgmental. If youll recall, she purposely drove her car into a lake, drowning her two small sons who were fastened into their car seats, and then blamed the whole thing on the fictional black man had carjacked her.

Back to the guy up top, heres something else that Id have an intern do, if I had one. Id have him or her photoshop in some stylish clothes and some kind of hip hairdo. Maybe Id have him/her superimpose the new image on a photo of a nicely designed apartment. Maybe hed be at a cocktail party or something. Then Id take the old picture, of him in jail, and the new image, of him after his make-over, and Id make a fake Queer Eye for the Straight Guy site, showing the before and after.

I could call it, Queer Eye for the White Power Guy.